by Sue Perry
"Mistrust of cats is an attitude you'll find around the Frames, but again, on Ma'Urth we have a different perspective—though some say cats have tainted our judgment, and mock us by calling our Frame 'Cat–Urth'."
I scoffed to hear this but the mockers had a point. I let cats get away with stuff that no one else dared try around me. "Should we be concerned about these cats?"
"I save mistrust for misdeed." He flipped through Lose Twenty Pounds with a two–handed skim that kept fingers in the margins, away from the bone–slicing text and page edges. His hands and jaw were scraped and bruised.
"Were you in a fight?"
"Of a sort. Is this a good book?"
Lose Twenty Pounds grew still and I sensed my answer mattered to the book. Mattered a lot. The poor book couldn't help it that someone filled his pages with pablum and baloney. I drew on my debate team experience to non–answer: "I've barely started reading it but so far I'm surprised by the degree to which I like it. I bought several copies, in fact. But I don't know why I felt compelled to do that."
"You'll understand when it's time to know."
"Do you understand?"
"Surely not." He closed the book. "Today it's safe for you to go home to Ma'Urth and you'll want to do so." Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he walked out of Frame.
I got ready to go.
"I don't know whether to take you back or leave you here," I told my books. Lose Twenty Pounds twisted left–right then up–down. No, don't take us back. Yes, leave us here. He squawked and hovered on the kitchenette side of the counter, until I went in the kitchenette to see why he hovered there. The Blue–Eyed Shan was stuck between pipes under the sink. As I extricated the book, its dust cover ripped. Behind me, Lose Twenty Pounds squawked and shed text on the tile. t–a–k–e–t–h–i–s–o–n–e–to–h–e–a–l.
The other books returned to their flying practice; the cats resumed play–fighting; and outside my open window, buildings were in hysterics. It must have been a good joke—even Julian murmured amusement. I wanted to stay and hang out; on Ma'Urth I'd once again be cut off from the Frames; but Kelly Joe had given me an order, however much he'd presented it like a suggestion.
I took a moment to wonder whether I was now comfortable in two Frames or no Frame.
19. OUR TIME ARRIVES
Within the first minute back in my apartment on Ma'Urth, I whacked my shin against the decorative table in the second floor hall, then smashed my toe into the kitchenette counter in my apartment, which delivered two reminders: I could slow down; and I was not yet familiar with my Manhattan abode. I pressed ice against the knot on my shin and limped like Quasimodo to check all my locks.
Today it's safe was the way Kelly Joe had described my return to Ma'Urth. Today.
I briefly dated a guy who was a disaster junkie. His version of foreplay was to practice fleeing. We'd get out in a hurry—from my apartment, his condo, our favorite dinner joint. For the first time, I could use what I learned from him. I closed my eyes and moved around my apartment until my muscle memory knew every turn and obstacle. Then I did the same in the hall outside my door.
As I zipped along the hall, backwards, I heard the stomping of the Entourage flash mob outside and even though I knew I imagined them and Julian would protect me, I spooked myself. I spun, faster than a politician's story, and my eyes popped open. Before my vision focused, I collided with someone in my locked hall, someone who pinned my arms to break my momentum.
When I recall that moment, I'm never sure whether it was adrenalin or the lanyard that blasted lightning through my extremities, but the jolts were so powerful that if my arms hadn't been pinned I might have become airborne.
My cheek pressed against a tunic of finely woven gray cloth. I inhaled the fresh wild scent of a forest after a flash flood.
"Well met, Nica of the New Yorks," Anwyl drawled above my scalp.
"Finally! You're finally here!" I mumbled into the cloth.
"With absence, an hour turns to night," Anya's glorious lilt filled the hall. Hearing her voice overwhelmed me. At some deep level I had feared I would never see either of them again. But here they were, filling the hall with their threat and promise. I shoved my face into Anwyl's tunic to hide my tears and realized that he still held me. On more than one occasion, he had supported me, but this was more embrace than brace. Wowza! My temperature spiked in all the right places.
Anya touched my arm and Anwyl released his hold. There's nothing more peace–inducing than sharing a smile with Anya. She hooked my arm in hers and pivoted us toward the staircase to the lobby. Anwyl loped downstairs ahead of us. He was a wolf on the move, looking for the hunt. At the Julian's front door he checked outside before he held the door for us to exit.
Kelly Joe sat at the bottom of the stoop outside and hummed into his harmonica, bending mournful notes as though thinking aloud. When Anwyl spotted Kelly Joe, he barked a noise that, from more easy–going lips, could be construed as a laugh. As my musician stood, Anwyl leaped the remaining steps and grabbed Kelly Joe, which carried them to the sidewalk. Their hug was a quick clasp of forearms. Anwyl stared into Kelly Joe's eyes then released his grip with twin slaps of affection and concern.
Kelly Joe took one of Anya's hands in both of his and bowed his head briefly. Genuflection on a midday Manhattan street wasn't the incognito we were going for.
"Our time arrives," she greeted him.
"Their time departs," he replied in a ritualized sing–song. Now it was their turn to exchange an eye–gaze.
She reached up to touch fingers to his forehead. "Be at peace, my brother," she whispered.
"When I have earned peace." His tone was rolling thunder.
My take–home messages were a jumble. Kelly Joe mattered to Anya and Anwyl and both seemed concerned about him. I'd often sensed his underlying sorrow but now I sensed self–hatred, too.
For the rest of the day, a small but relentless part of my mind plotted schemes to get one of them to dish about what all this meant. The rest of me was consumed by excitement and exhaustion. Anya, Anwyl, and Kelly Joe. To be with all three of them was amazing.
We headed east like we had a destination. Kelly Joe redirected their attention to me. "Nica's a dedicated student. She learned 'most all you needed her to learn and then a little more."
"I expected no other outcome," Anya smiled.
Anwyl focused on the half empty. "Almost all is not all. What skill does she yet lack?"
"I can only Travel with ladybugs."
"Ladybugs?" Anya asked Kelly Joe.
"Coccinellidae," he explained.
Of course. Now they understood. Anya's voice was warm enough to thaw Pluto. "This affinity serves you well. When first we met, you had one such being with you." She held my arm like reunited sisters.
Anwyl had the newsworthy response, though. He spoke kindly, proving that oxymorons can come true. Anwyl kind. "I shared your struggle when I learned to Travel. Transport of a living being requires more energy than we believe we have. Adjust your belief and the skill will follow. On the morrow you must practice. But before this day loses its sheen, show us the structures you have identified as altered by Warty Sebaceous Cysts."
It was disorienting to have Anwyl speak to me as though my brain had all its lobes, but I adapted to the novelty and savored it throughout the afternoon as we visited Lantana construction sites. More than half the sites showed signs of recent damage, mostly fire.
"Have you been this busy or do you have friends who help you?" I asked Kelly Joe.
In honor of Anya and Anwyl's arrival he gave an obscure answer. "Yes indeed."
The last construction site we visited was the one outside Woodlawn Cemetery. The site was gone, with scorched pavement as a reminder of Kelly Joe's arson job. Parked on the pavement were a pair of food trucks. Anya touched them in a way that told me the trucks were sentient and she was saying hello.
Anwyl held a hand on the aluminum siding of Alonzo's Biscuits, then reported to
us, "As the sun sets, disturbance will rise in there." He nodded toward the cemetery and led us through the gate.
The guard at the gate kiosk called, "We close at sunset. In twenty minutes, I lock this gate." Today the guard was a snip of a girl who didn't seem to care when none of us responded. My companions continued into the cemetery to a three–branch fork in the road. They each took a separate branch.
"I'll catch up," I said and returned to the gate kiosk. Would this gate guard also get angry to see a photo of Sam Strongfellow?
The gate guard was reading about celebrities and tugging fingers through the unruly black frizz that capped her head. Her nails were long, square, and white as a Goth's belly skin. In the twilight they glowed like, well, tombstones.
"Hi, again. The guy who works this gate. What's his name again?"
"The one who died, you mean?"
"Died? I just talked to him."
"He dropped dead on his shift. They only noticed his body after they put out the fire."
"There was a fire?"
"Mm hmm, at the construction site. They said he had a stroke. He was always yelling at everybody. That's not healthy."
"There've been problems with some cemetery visitors. Maybe he yelled to keep them in line?"
"Those guys. They're just kids. Although for kids they were scary."
"'Kids', huh? You're what, 18 next birthday, Rosie?" She looked surprised then touched her name badge. Yup. That's how I knew.
"A kid can call a kid a kid."
I laughed. "A kid can do whatever she wants."
"Truth!" We bumped knuckles to seal our agreement.
"I'd like to talk to those other kids. Any idea how to find them?"
"Yes."
I waited earnestly.
"Count two then turn around but not like I told you," she whispered.
"OK, thanks, wish me luck finding it," I said loudly while heading onto the grounds. Coming down the north fork of the road were a quartet of twenty–something men, walking abreast to fill the road.
The quartet stayed four abreast, making me step onto the grass to pass them. All four stared. One of them said, "Typical New York white bitch," which set the other three to muttering, although they were the ones with the local accents and the pale skin.
Rosie was right. They were scary. I returned to the road once I got past them and I made sure not to quicken my pace even when I heard them pause behind me. Speeding up was a chase me I'm prey choice.
The loudmouth said over the muttering, "Leave her for now, man." Four sets of boots stomped toward the gate, paused. The gate buzzed and the boots continued out of the cemetery.
I resumed breathing and assumed that distant click was Rosie, locking herself into the guard kiosk.
It wasn't over. Here came four more guys, again spanning the road, again with a swagger that said they were looking for trouble. Some of these guys felt like out–of–Framers. Where were Anwyl and Anya and Kelly Joe?
I turned a curve in the road and I spotted yet another four, coming from behind a mausoleum with pink and black stone. They appeared suddenly—they weren't there and then they were. As though they had arrived by walking a Connector from another Frame.
I focused on the immediate threat, the four in the road ahead of me. Three looked to the fourth, who sneered, "She's a jogger, the rich ones have time to stay fit," which got the others angry at me. Seriously. The four coming from the mausoleum were close enough now that I could hear one say to the others, "Anyone who dresses like that is a tease." It was as if each group had a hatred coach.
The lanyard was not helpful. It blasted me with pain that made it hard to stay as alert as I needed to stay. "I know, already, stop jolting me!" I yelled at the lanyard, which made the closer group pause, all too briefly.
I was almost as mad as I was frightened, and I calculated my escape while I strode toward them like I hadn't heard their taunts. I'm not prey, jerkwads, I'm not prey. I cupped my hands to shout over their shoulders, "Hey, guys, wait up!" Big guy with a stick right behind you. Which could become true, if my companions could only hear me.
My plan was to run like hell and get lost in the lengthening shadows. I'm not a jogger, toad, I'm a runner. As soon as I got past the ones blocking the road, I would sprint across the grass away from the Connector. They wouldn't expect it, which could buy me a few seconds of lead.
And if wishes were spaceships, I'd get beamed up.
The four from the mausoleum caught up to the group blocking the road. Now they stretched eight across—and the flanks kept moving, as though to get behind me. "Look at her," somebody sneered, prompting his hatred coach for more reasons to loathe me.
The promise of mayhem filled the air like Africanized bees. I searched their faces for hints of humanity, common ground, loopholes. I found the clenched jaws of fanatics. I was stunned to recognize one of the hatred coaches.
"Sam Strongfellow?! Lilah has been looking everywhere for you!"
This disrupted their attack. Seven of the eight had never heard those names before, and none of us were expecting me to react with indignation.
"Lilah," Sam repeated blankly.
The others shuffled.
I hate bullies. They put me in a blind white rage, ever since the time in middle school that bullies broke the arm of my friend, Tommy Dinatello, and he had to drop out of his bike race. I got suspended, along with the bullies, for my counterattack. Violence is always wrong or some nonsense like that.
"Your sister, dumbass! She's worrying about you while you're harassing people in a fucking cemetery!" And I shoved him, and we weren't expecting that either, and I got lucky, and he lost his balance. He didn't fall, though, he stumbled. And as he straightened and the eight tightened their circle and my rage cooled, a scramble of thoughts congealed to a single concept. I'm doomed.
Faint as a liar's conscience came mournful twists of blues harmonica. The guys on the flanks shouted and leaped at me. Correction, they launched sideways and fell on their sides. While the four on the ground moaned, the four who were still standing spun to face their attackers. Yes, they had been attacked. My cavalry had arrived.
Even being on the same side, my cohorts frightened me. Anya called commands like thunderclaps. Anwyl used one arm to pin both of Sam's arms, and with the other hand, held a wicked blade at Sam's throat. Kelly Joe put a boot on one of the fallen and shoved him prone, while beckoning the three who were still standing to come closer.
"We can take them. There're only four and two of them are girls," a rank–and–file bully yelled.
A hate coach told him to shut up.
With a boot on the arm of a bully, Kelly Joe resumed playing harmonica, and with each note the eight showed less conviction. The four on the ground stopped writhing. The three who were on their feet—and not in Anwyl's grip—milled around. Anya stepped out of the failing light and linked her elbow with mine. "It is fortunate that some of you recognize your opponents," she announced to the group. "We wish to avoid loss of life, even the lives of (and she said a name that sounded like) Lobotomists."
(No matter how hard I listened the name still sounded liked) "Lobotomists," Anwyl spoke with contempt. "To call theirs lives, you bestow favor unearned."
This got seven of them riled up, until a guttural syllable issued from Sam. He couldn’t speak words, he'd stab himself on Anwyl's blade.
"Your point is well honed," Anya said to Anwyl, as though discussing gardening over tea.
Kelly Joe pocketed his harmonica. "When you're ready to listen, we'll explain—one time—how you might keep living," he told my harassers.
They grew so still that crickets resumed chirping around us. I guess I had some PTSD going because I didn't fidget much while we waited. The sun slid under a bank of clouds and suddenly the scene turned golden, like Rembrandt had painted a rumble. The sun slid more and the light dimmed fast.
Adding to my shock was my companions' matter–of–factness. We had entered a new phase, one Anya had warned me
would come. Diplomacy will give way to battle.
Crickets chirped. Anya spoke into the darkness. "Your choices are two. You may retrace your journey by Connector and return to your beginning point, or we will send you beyond the Far Frames." Go back, or die. The only choices. Fact, not threat.
20. THE FIRST TO DIE
They chose life. Kelly Joe and Anwyl escorted them back to the mausoleum beside the Connector, disappeared for a time, then reappeared without them, bearing an acrid fragrance like sage in a wildfire, which I came to know as the scent when a Connector is destroyed.
"I thought Connectors didn't come through cemeteries out of respect," I said as we headed to the exit. The bars of the gate sliced black shadows across cars on the street outside.
"This Connector was a rogue passage, newly formed," Anwyl answered.
"Those clowns built a Connector?"
"No. Only a being of great power can make a Connector."
"The Cysts," I yelled, because I wanted to whisper. My voice echoed among the tombstones. I wished the crickets would chirp again.
"Working together, Warty Sebaceous Cysts have grown sufficiently powerful," Anya agreed.
My companions were quiet walkers. Only my shoes scuffled on the asphalt as we entered the straightaway before the gate.
"What good does it do to return them to the Frame they came from? Can't they Travel back?"
"And surely they will, but not at the time or route they chose," Kelly Joe said. "Lobotomists can only Travel by Connector."
"Death will join the allies but not for the non," Anya added.
I stumbled over the implication. Death or exile were the only choices for those guys. Did that mean that Sam was lost to Lilah?
At the gate, Rosie was locked in her kiosk, watching without blinking, talking into a handheld radio. I pantomimed that all was well. A buzzer bleated, meaning she unlocked the gate. We pushed out of the cemetery and headed for the elevated train station across the street. Anwyl and Anya walked a few paces ahead, debating what that rogue Connector might indicate about the Cysts' plans.